


Mouth Ever Fresh With Praise

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is too curious for his own good. Fortunately, Gabriel doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mouth Ever Fresh With Praise

  
  
Gabriel is mooching off the motel's wi-fi, surrounded by eau de Winchester (gun oil, salt, sweat, musk), watching an illegally downloaded copy of 'The Maltese Falcon' and streaming porn at the same time (you haven't lived until you've watched Humphrey Bogart moaning like a two-dollar whore, and the fact that he's doing it on the Winchester brothers' dime just makes it sound all the sweeter) when he realizes that he isn't alone, and probably hasn't been for a couple minutes. He gets lost pretty easily in old movies – better time, better material, all that jazz. And Mary Astor was _smokin'_ in that movie. When he turns around, though, it isn't Brigid watching him, but Sam, looking annoyed and a little flustered.

"Is that my laptop?"

Gabriel shrugs. Does the elder Winchester even own a computer? He'd only used _this_ one because bringing a new one into existence was too much work. Sam jumps up from the bed he's been sitting on like his ass is on fire, lunging for the laptop and hurriedly x-ing out of the porn _and_ the movie. Gabriel makes a noise of protest.

"I do _not_ need illegal downloading added to my list of fuck-ups," Sam mutters. And shit, it's not like Gabriel would have left any _evidence_ of what he'd been doing. Angels were immortal and almost all-powerful, but sadly not immune to human law – Gabriel remembers, fondly, a couple dozen years ago in Italy, getting arrested for drawing mustaches on all the ancient statues of gods. It wasn't like he'd ruined them _forever_, the ink had washed off with water, but he'd still spent a night in prison. Mostly just to see what it was like.

"You came in here specifically to deny me my one guilty pleasure in life?" Sam chokes on his own laughter, bringing up a new browser window, long fingers tap-tapping in a web address Gabriel doesn't immediately recognize. A private server, maybe?

"I sincerely doubt that you only have _one_ guilty pleasure. I wanted to ask you something."

The page loads pretty quickly – not a private server, but one of those blog sites. Gabriel tried it once, but there was only so much teenage angst a guy could take before wanting to kill himself and everybody within a ten-mile radius, so he'd dropped that particular experiment like a hot potato and had never looked back. Sam clicks a couple of links while Gabriel looks over his shoulder towards the window. He can just barely see outside, where a guy with a poodle and an awful toupee has just gotten kicked in the face by a chick wearing combat boots and a t-shirt that says…He squints. 'Cunt-Monger.' Must be a lover's spat, then.

"Here," Sam says, and Gabriel turns his attention away from the outside world and back to the internet, and to the page that Sam has navigated himself to. It's a biography for a 'community' that claims it's for fans of…oh.

"Those _fucking_ books," he groans, and has to admire the ingenuity of the human mind. Only humans could come up with a way to sell the horror story that is the Winchester's lives, and sell it in a way that attracts _fans_. Sam pokes him in the shoulder, then moves the cursor over the name of the community. Gabriel postpones his moment of annoyed amusement in favor of reading the rest of the page.

The community is called Sambriel. It sounds like some kind of fruity fucking drink.

"That sounds like some kind of cocktail. What the hell is a Sambriel?"

Oh, wait, there's a section titled 'What We Are.' Gabriel reads it, and then re-reads it, just to make sure Sam isn't fucking with him. Apparently, 'Sambriel' is a portmanteau, like 'brunch' or 'Brangelina.' Except it's _his_ name and _Sam's_ name, and that is just…

Well, he's not about to say it's wrong, because Sam is pretty easy on the eyes and Gabriel doesn't confine himself to the 'opposite gender only' mentality, but it's fucking _weird_. Apparently, people are worshipping his body on the internet and he _never knew_. He feels like he's been somehow remiss in his duty to the world.

"That's not even what I wanted to ask about," Sam says, and there's a hint of little-boy reluctance in his voice that makes Gabriel think that, whatever it is that Sam wants, it's probably filthier than revealing he has porn of himself and Gabriel on speed-dial. Sure enough, instead of navigating away from the community, Sam ventures deeper inside it, clicking on link after link, like some gigantic internet Venn diagram of porn, except the people in the community call it 'fic' – here's one where he and Sam fuck on a kitchen table, and here's one where they fuck in a kitchen but with Gabriel sitting, Sam riding his lap, and _here's_ one where they blow each other in a bathroom while, fuck, while Castiel and Dean are outside listening. That shouldn't be hot, but then he considers how blue Castiel's vessel's eyes are, and he remembers that incest is a human concept and technically angels don't even have genders when they aren't inhabiting a vessel, so it's cool.

Eventually, Sam stops clicking and leans back, giving Gabriel room to examine the cornucopia of porn he's been brought. The header is pretty simple – title, rating (NC-17? Why not just put _porn_ in huge red letters?), author, summary, and warnings. It's the warnings section that peaks his interest, because everything else seems pretty self-explanatory. There's really no way you can mistake 'anal sex' for anything other than…well, anal sex.

"You want to know what rimming is," Gabriel guesses, and knows he's right when Sam's face starts to turn beet red. Like, seriously, red like a bloody mary kind of red.

"I _know_ what it is."

"Ah, so you _did_ read through this. I was wondering."

"Not the point. I wanted to know if _you_ knew. Being an angel and all."

Gabriel gives Sam a _look_. It's a look he can be proud of –understated disbelief, but not too much, combined with a healthy dose of sarcasm and mild amusement. A lesser man would pale under the intensity of his scorn, but all Sam does is shift restlessly from foot to foot. Ah. So that's where the reluctance comes from.

"You want to hear _sex stories_," Gabriel says, gleefully, like a sociopathic kid who's just gotten his hands on a magnifying glass and an ant farm. "_You_ want to know how much ass I've eaten in the past couple thousand years."

"Not when you put it like that, no. This was a bad idea. Give me my laptop back, I should go and talk to Dean about our next hunt."

Gabriel draws the laptop back, making Sam lean over him to fumble for it, chewing on his bottom lip and looking, oh, _adorable_. Huge puppy eyes. Floppy hair. _Dimples_. Those had been Raphael's idea, originally. Gabriel has never been so glad to see his brother's handiwork in action.

"Alexander the third," Gabriel says, and Sam freezes, hovering half-on and half-off the desk chair, and, by extension, Gabriel. "Of Macedon," he adds after a moment, and Sam leans back, slowly, like he's afraid he might wake up from a really interesting dream.

"…Alexander the Great," Sam says, faintly. "There was never any proof that he was bisexual, though. He had wives. Kids."

"I'd say him buried balls-deep in me was pretty good proof at the time."

"Oh God."

"Hey. Let's leave fathers out of this, shall we? Let's see, he was…twenty-five? Twenty-six? It was definitely after he declared war on the Persians, I know that. He happened to be in Illyria, _I_ happened to be in Illyria…we hooked up. Turns out he liked to get freaky. Who am I to say 'no' when an attractive general offers to prep me with his tongue? He wanted his friend to watch, too. Hephaestion…something. I said no."

"You were willing to let him do…_that_ to you, but voyeurism creeps you out?"

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "_Please_. The instant that guy showed up, I wouldn't be getting _any_ attention. They'd have stared longingly at each other while I laid there like a blow-up doll. Not my idea of a good time. We did it my way. I got all the attention, his friend got all the details afterwards, everybody goes home happy."

Sam is still chewing on his bottom lip. Gabriel has half a mind to offer to do that for him, but he suspects that, at this point, he'd just scare the younger Winchester off. You have to be _delicate_, in situations like this. Easing a guy with a virgin ass into bed isn't the same as hooking up with drunk, slutty chicks in a bar. You have to be _nice_ about it.

"So," Sam breathes. "Alexander the Great."

"And Ronald Reagan." Gabriel shrugs as Sam's mouth literally drops open. "He was hot, he was in movies, and he was single. He wanted me to spank him and call him a 'dirty boy.' He changed a lot after he got elected, though."

"You _slept with a President._"

"You mean I _did my patriotic duty._"

Sam's eyes widen a split second before he starts laughing, and it's such a loud, _handsome_ laugh. Like it's somehow relieving Sam of something he was carrying. Gabriel suspects the Winchesters haven't had a lot to laugh about for a long time, and fixing that is almost as good as the idea of Sam flat on his back while Gabriel's mouth does filthy, filthy things to him. He watches Sam stumble to the bed, dropping down onto the edge while he's holding his sides and giggling, and Gabriel cracks a smile, too. It's not like he can help it. Once upon a time, joy was his _gig_. Just…these days, he's more into bringing joy to himself, rather than virgins and apostles and whatnot.

"Oh Christ," Sam wheezes, and heaves himself upright again, rubbing his palms over his cheeks, scrubbing them up his face and over his eyes.

"_That_, I didn't touch. Dude threw some awesome parties, though. Water into wine, by the way? Totally my idea."

"You've _seriously_ done all this. Been to all these places, met all these people…"

Gabriel's brows furrow, almost without him noticing. "Yeah, of course. What, you think I'm lying?"

"No! No, it's just…I'm human. It's kinda hard for me to comprehend. You know, sitting here, discussing sex with the angel who practically delivered Jesus. The whole world thinks you're this…paragon of purity, and all this time you've been sleeping your way through human history."

"'Paragon of purity?' Way to pull out the ten dollar words, Sammy. Look, it's not my problem that humans think the way they do. And to be honest, the way you people have demonized sex is kinda insulting. Why the hell do you think I invented the kama sutra?"

"Now I _know_ you're lying."

"Yeah, alright, fine, it was some Indian dude. But seriously, chastity belts? Purity rings? You were given genitals for a reason, you know. You could have been reproducing _asexually_. Like _amoeba_. And the reason why you aren't is because sex is awesome, and it was always _meant_ to be awesome. Refusing to have sex is basically just spitting on all of Heaven's hard work."

Okay, maybe that was a bit heavy-handed, but Sam looks more thoughtful than panicked, so Gabriel figures the damage can't be too bad. It's just that the last time he'd tried to get people to loosen up, he'd accidentally started the Crusades, so he's understandably wary.

He's even warier, though, when Sam gets up from the bed, and grabs his laptop, and leaves the room. All without saying a word, or even _looking_ at Gabriel.

Huh.

  
It's three days later in a different shitty motel room, still surrounded by eau de Winchester, still partaking of America's favorite pastime (though this time it's Ingrid Bergman in 'For Whom The Bell Tolls' combined with Nikita Gross in 'Blowjob Adventures of Dr. Fellatio 9' – what can he say? He likes the tall ones), when Gabriel hears someone clear their throat behind him. Judging by the level of disapproval in the sound, he guesses that it's Sam. Again.

"I'm pretty sure I told you _not_ to use my laptop to download stuff. In fact, I would really prefer it if you didn't use my laptop _at all_."

Yep, he was right. Except, for someone who a minute ago sounded like he was going to kick Gabriel in the balls, Sam seems to be doing…remarkably little. Which means he's either not really annoyed, or he's simply biding his time until a better opportunity presents itself. Gabriel closes out of 'Blowjob Adventures' and pulls up his internet history instead. He's betting himself a candy bar that scrounging up some nice, twink-filled gay porn will make Sammy flee from the room, or maybe ask more questions, but either way he wins: alone time on one hand, spank bank fantasies on the other.

Except as soon as he opens up the history he's _bombarded_ with websites, and none of them are ones he's been to in the past couple days. Sam makes a cornered, anxious sound behind him and lunges for the keyboard like a starving man for a Thanksgiving turkey, but Gabriel's already seen the first result.

'Anilingus: A How-To Guide For Beginners.'

It's been so long since Gabriel was shocked over something; he's pretty sure he's actually forgotten what it feels like. This, though, feels suspiciously like shock. And also arousal. Hey, Sam is good-looking, _and_ he's leaning over Gabriel's lap. He's only…no, that phrase doesn't apply to him. Gabriel's not human, but he's not about to let that keep him from enjoying himself.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that there's something on your mind."

Sam shakes his head, rapidly closing out of everything (_including_ Gabriel's movie), and then all but slamming the laptop shut. He can practically feel Sam's heart pounding – no surprise, considering how little space there is between them. Then Sam backs off, dragging the laptop with him and neatly pulling out the power cable. He looks wide-eyed and rabbity, like he'll bolt at any second. Gabriel slides his hands from the desk to his lap, neatly folding them and giving Sam a moment to collect himself.

"I, uh." Sam's brows furrow in consternation. It's like watching a puppy try to catch its own tail. "It's probably all Dean's. You…you know him and his porn."

"I'm pretty sure 'Busty Asian Beauties' is his. Unless you're admitting to that one, too, in which case I'll have you know that I make a _damn_ good-looking Thai chick."

Sam swallows, and Gabriel watches his Adam's apple bob, fascinated. Sam has such a _long_ neck. Like a freaking swan, or a…a crane. And for the longest moment Gabriel thinks he's going to bolt like a bird, too – just flitter away, drown himself in hard liquor for a night, then forget any of this had ever happened.

But…

"I was curious," Sam mutters, more to his laptop than to Gabriel. "I just…like to know about things. And it was bugging me, so I looked it up. On _my_ laptop. It's none of your business what I do with my free time."

"It was _bugging_ you? That's not the usual reaction to rimming, Sammy. People either love it or hate it, they don't feel _ambivalent_ about it. So why don't you tell me what's really on your mind?"

There's that cornered look again, but it's hotter, now. Gabriel remembers posing as Faunus, doing his duty (though he was hardly about to complain) chasing nymphs through brambles and harsh reeds, eventually catching up to them, bloody and sweaty and horny as all fuck, and they had the same look that Sam has now. Like he _wants_ to be caught. Gabriel eases himself from the desk chair, slinking to his feet and taking a step closer to Sam. He's a lot taller than Gabriel's vessel, and that's sexy in and of itself, but it's also sexy that Sam doesn't back down or try to run. He just stands there, clutching his laptop to his chest with his lips slightly parted and his candy-pink tongue just barely visible.

Gabriel takes another step, and Sam's close enough to spit on him or bite him now, sure as hell close enough to _punch_ him, but instead his eyelids droop, his breathing is faster, and when Gabriel inhales he can _smell_ him. Musk, pheromones, fear. It's unbelievably sexy, and the urge to grab a handful of that shaggy hair and yank Sam down into a kiss is pretty strong.

Except you have to be _delicate_. And Gabriel isn't the most patient being in existence, but he knows how to play the game to get what he wants. Sam doesn't really want a lover right now – not in the strictest sense. He wants a _teacher_.

The only thing missing is a pencil skirt and some white stockings, but Gabriel's gonna take what he can get.

"You want to know what it's like," he murmurs, carefully laying an open palm against Sam's hip, drawing it up to his side. The muscles underneath his hand twitch and shiver, but Sam doesn't pull away. "Getting eaten out. Having someone spread your ass open, pressing their tongue against your greedy little hole, working it into you. Did you know you can do it after getting fucked, too? You, all sloppy and loose…Makes it easier to get deeper. It feels _good_, Sammy. You wanna try it?" The response he gets is a breathless little moan, and either Sam is hiding a ruler in his pants or he's proportional _everywhere_. Hot _damn_, but Gabriel loves the tall ones. He uses his palm to urge Sam forward, to press up against him. It means Gabriel has to crane his neck to look the guy in the face, but it also means that he has cock pressed up against him, their pelvises rocking together, and he considers that a fair trade.

"All you have to do is say 'yes,'" he says, leans up to exhale hot and soft over Sam's neck, gets another shudder and sigh in return, and then the sweetest sound he's ever heard: Sam groaning an affirmative, his hands mindlessly finding Gabriel's hips and gripping them tight.

"_Yes_."

And, you know, consent is all an angel really needs. Gabriel presses a kiss to Sam's cheek, imagines a place where they can be alone and as creative as they want, and reaches for it.

  
Gabriel can imagine any number of places that would make for awesome 'first gay sex' memories: the Taj Mahal, the Sistine Chapel (although looking up at some human's depiction of his Father is kinda off-putting), on top of Mt. Rushmore…But those are all for the more adventurous type, and it's taken Sam three days to admit that he wants to know what Gabriel's packing, so adventure isn't the point. This time.

A couple thousand years frolicking around Earth means that Gabriel has got houses and apartments all across the globe, not to mention the Swiss bank accounts (he likes to watch the interest grow) and the secret places only he knows about. He's got any number of viable choices, but in the end he takes Sam to a little cabin in Montana, surrounded by trees and streams and fucking _bears_ who keep knocking down his bird feeders. All things that he suspects Sam will find relaxing, which is the main goal. Sam has to be relaxed. He has to be _accepting_. A little dirty talk has taken Gabriel a lot farther than he expected, and he doesn't want to screw up his chances now.

Fortunately, Sam doesn't look nearly as apprehensive as he could – in fact, he looks…more curious than anything else. Gabriel watches him poke around the cabin for a few minutes, examining trinkets that Gabriel has collected over the years (you live on Earth for as long as he has and you sort of _have_ to start collecting _something_), carefully setting them back down again. Humans have such a preoccupation with _things_. For them, objects have meaning beyond the simplicity of form and function. A Faberge egg, to a human, might represent history, or wealth, or status…but to Gabriel, it's just something pretty to look at. All of the places he's collected for himself are full of pretty things: art, sculptures, photos, decorative throws and pillows, all sort of cluttered together. If it isn't edible, and it isn't _comfortable_ then the chances are high that he just likes _looking_ at it.

"I thought God frowned upon material wealth," Sam muses, carefully setting down a small, bronze replica of the Gayer-Anderson cat. He runs his fingers over the molded scarab on its forehead, the wedjat amulet on its chest. Gabriel shrugs, then steps up and settles his hands on Sam's hips, gently steering him away from the cabin's living room, towards the bedroom. Giving Sam too much time to think might lead to him changing his mind, and Gabriel is quite honestly sick of his own hand. There's only so many times he can jerk off to a fantasy before he starts getting bored, and he's pretty sure he reached that limit about fifteen hours ago.

Thankfully, Sam allows himself to be steered, and when they finally reach the bedroom the first thing he does is take a step away from Gabriel and bend down to unlace his shoes, toeing them off as Gabriel takes the chance to admire the ass that he, _hopefully_, will soon be getting to know a little better.

"Pants off," Gabriel instructs. "And, hell, the shirt too. Then I want you to lie down on your stomach. Make yourself comfortable."

Sam flicks his eyes over Gabriel's body – no, his _clothes_ \- and looks like he wants to protest, except by the looks of things he's not exactly thinking with his brain anymore, and he only manages to hold the expression for about thirty seconds before he sighs and tugs his shirt over his head, shoulders flexing. Even with their shirts on, it's glaringly obvious what Castiel has done to the Winchesters – Gabriel doesn't need x-ray vision to notice the sigils carved into Sam's ribs. Effective, but irritating. It means he isn't able to feel Sam with all of his senses – he's relegated to the more human ones only. It sucks, but he isn't about to fault his brother _or_ Sam for it. He watches patiently as Sam meticulously folds his shirt and sets it on the dresser, shucks down his jeans and does the same, until he's standing there in boxers and scars and Enochian, nothing else. Gabriel touches his arm as he passes, the ridges of scar tissue and the ripple of muscle, and Sam looks…_grateful_.

_This might be getting out of hand,_ Gabriel thinks, but no force on Earth can stop him from seeing this through, and he retrieves the first bottle of lotion he can find from the nightstand before kneeling at the foot of the bed, examining the curves and valleys of Sam's body. For such a tall, skinny guy you'd think he'd have no ass at all, but he fills out the back of his boxers almost as well as he fills out the front. It's _exactly_ where Gabriel _can't_ start, so he slathers his palms with lotion ('Coco Cabana?' He can't even _imagine_ what he was thinking when he bought this) and decides that working from the top down is his best bet. He rubs his hands together to get the lotion at least marginally warmer than room temperature, and then gets to work smoothing the kinks out of Sam's shoulders.

"_Mm_. I thought we were gonna do the other thing," is Sam's response, and Gabriel rolls his eyes, working his thumb against a particularly vicious knot just below Sam's shoulder blades. Sam hisses, first in pain, then in relief as the knot finally gives.

"You don't trust me? We're working up to it, I promise. First you have to relax, otherwise everything else is gonna be useless." He digs into another sore spot, Sam's soft, marginally-pained sighs and grunts going straight to Gabriel's dick. He sounds like a freakin' _porn star_, but he doubts Sam would take that as a compliment (even if it's meant as one), so Gabriel keeps his mouth shut and dips his hands lower, rubbing them in circles over the middle of Sam's back. It looks like Sam isn't made of stone, either - he's rocking his hips against the mattress (silk sheets and a goose down comforter, everything in wine red, _no_ expenses spared), slow and subtle, but there.

"Lift your hips, Sammy," he croons, and Sam does it without even thinking, lets Gabriel strip his boxers down and the only noise he makes sounds suspiciously like another _yes_, so who is Gabriel to deny him? He covers his palms with more lotion, works it into the small of Sam's back so that the chill of it makes him squirm and hiss, pressing his ass up into the air.

If Gabriel had thought Sam's ass looked good in jeans, it's nothing compared to the younger Winchester on his knees, face pushed into a pillow with his dick hanging swollen and red between his legs.

"It's a miracle you can even _walk_ with that thing, let alone that you have enough blood to stay hard and conscious at the same time." Sam turns his head, cheek to the pillow, peering back over his shoulder as Gabriel bows his head, pressing a kiss to the curve of his spine. Blech – lotion. But every muscle is as relaxed as it's going to get (he supposes, growing up the way the Winchesters had, that there will never be a time when they're _totally_ relaxed), so it's done its job, foul-tasting or not. He tosses the bottle over the side of the bed and Sam watches it go, then switches his attention back to Gabriel.

"I can't tell if that was a compliment or not."

"Good. Means I'm keeping you guessing. Spread your legs, babe."

There's a flash of hesitance, then Sam pushes himself up a bit, inching his knees apart until Gabriel stops him with one hand on his ass and the other on his left thigh.

"This is the iffy part," Gabriel says, and smoothes his palm over Sam's skin, thumb dipping briefly between his cheeks, just barely touching. "Here's the deal. You tell me to stop, and I'll stop. But you tell me to keep going, and I'll make you come so hard you'll think you've seen Heaven."

Sam snorts, but it does the trick – he stops clenching his muscles, for the moment, and that gives Gabriel enough time to grab a palmful of ass in each hand and spread Sam apart. He gets a startled noise for his trouble, but Sam doesn't pull away or call time-out, just keeps looking over his shoulder, watching Gabriel, what he's doing. He considers the merits of materializing a mirror, and then decides that it might be too much for Sam's first time.

But quite often a first time will lead into a _next_ time, and Gabriel can broach the subject then. With that decided, he bends forward and presses a kiss to the curve of Sam's ass, sucking a red mark into the milk-pale skin, drawing a sigh from Sam, and then a deep, reverberating groan when Gabriel ducks his head lower, nosing against his sac, mouthing at the weight of it. Every time Sam shifts his cock sways, and precome drips down onto the sheets. Gabriel's mouth is watering, and it's worth noting that he never salivated over _Alexander's_ prick.

"Deep breaths," he warns, and then moves back up, holding Sam apart as he presses his mouth against Sam's perineum, and then points his tongue and presses there, hot and wet as Sam starts moaning in earnest, his thighs shaking as his body tries to figure out which way to thrust: back, into Gabriel's tongue, or forward, into the sheets. Gabriel makes up his mind for him, nibbling at the rim of Sam's hole and laughing against the twitching muscle when Sam bucks back, making a high, frantic sound in his throat. He's no longer looked over his shoulder, but rather has his face shoved into the pillow. Gabriel honestly thinks he sees _tears_ for a moment, but when Sam shifts there's nothing. Still…_Damn_, he's good – and they haven't even really started, yet.

"_Breaths_, Sammy," he murmurs, and the vibrations of his voice travel through lips and tongue and teeth, shivering against Sam's skin. "That implies actually _breathing_."

"Fuck you," he hears, muffled and hoarse. And then, infinitely softer, "_Please._ More."

Gabriel doesn't think he could say 'no' even if he wanted to. Hygiene has improved a lot since Ancient Greece and Rome, but Sam tastes _incredibly_ clean, nothing but soap and sweat and musk, and the faintest hint of dark earthiness beneath. Either he's just naturally thorough in the shower, or Sam had been _planning_ this, both of which Gabriel can easily get behind. Grinning, he breathes across Sam's hole, then flattens his tongue and licks across the center of it, one slow, broad sweep that Sam reacts to with muffled curses and babbled groans. Gabriel does it again, and again, until he's loose with it, saliva-slick and every nerve ending is swollen pink and puffy against Gabriel's mouth. Sam moves, and for one panic-inducing instant (he isn't _done_, he hasn't made Sam feel _really_ good yet) he thinks that Sam is going to pull away. All he does, though, is reach between his legs, taking his dick in hand and stroking, slow and rhythmic. The panic ebbs, and now instead of the flat of his tongue Gabriel uses the tip, fucking into Sam with his mouth while Sam's fist works over his own dick, moving faster as Gabriel works deeper.

One of the best things – he's not prepared to say it's _the_ best thing, but it's pretty high up there on the list – about being an archangel is limited control over reality. No angel has the power to create life, that's strictly God's duty, but altering things? Bending the shape of the world, just a bit? Comes pretty easily. So if Gabriel decides he wants Taco Bell for dinner, he pictures it in his head and reaches for his Grace and voila, a burrito supreme with mild sauce and extra cheese. And if Gabriel decides he wants a tongue about five inches long, he imagines up a Gene Simmons tongue and he damn well _gets_ it. Sam doesn't seem to mind the abuse of power – the deeper Gabriel gets the more incoherent he becomes. Gabriel's not even sure Sam has _noticed_ a change, though, to be fair, Gabriel's being a bit distracting. He curls his tongue, Sam's hole clenching around it and against his lips, and he still tastes so _clean_, and every moan is breathless and high and gorgeous, right up until Gabriel flicks the tip of his tongue against Sam's prostate.

Then he _freaks the fuck out_.

"_Stop_. Oh Christ, stop, please Gabriel, _stop_."

He made a promise, and Gabriel keeps his promises. He works his way out of Sam, slow as he fucked his way in, and then rubs circles into Sam's back as he shudders and moans and rides his own palm.

"Too much," he gasps, and any smidgen of hurt Gabriel might have felt (_might_ have felt) vanishes. Shit, Sam probably doesn't even know what a prostate _is_, let alone the marvelous things he can do with it. But when he urges Sam to roll over onto his back, he goes easily and willingly, and his cock looks so hard that Gabriel's hurts in _sympathy_.

Another perk of being an archangel – you learned how to control your vessel's responses, and you upped your staying power by about sixty percent.

"Told you to take deep breaths," he complains, but Sam huffs breathless laughter, still stroking himself, and Gabriel isn't the type to keep his hands to himself at the best of times. He swats Sam's hand away, takes over, curling his fingers around Sam's dick and using precome and the remnants of lotion to ease the way. Sam plants his feet on the bed, arching his back, his hips, up and up and _up_ with his face flushed and sweat beading across his shoulders and chest and forehead. He's _gorgeous_, and it's beyond Gabriel why Dean is the one who gets all the sweet tail, but he honestly doesn't care because it means that, right here and now, he's got Sam to _himself_ and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

It doesn't take much to get Sam back to incoherency again – there are plenty of erogenous zones that don't involve prostates _or_ asses, and Gabriel spends some time figuring Sam's out and jerking him off at the same time: his neck is sensitive, probably why he wears his hair so long, to keep people from touching him there, and he's got _really_ ticklish armpits, and he doesn't respond much to Gabriel lavishing attention on his nipples, but when Gabriel strokes the fingers of his free hand down Sam's side, light, barely there, it's like fireworks have gone off. Sam tosses his head back and _gasps_, the way he had when Gabriel's tongue had been in him, so Gabriel does it again, and again, and the fourth time Sam doesn't just gasp, he _comes_, moaning Gabriel's name. It's the sweetest damn sound he's ever heard, and he milks all the sound and jizz he can from Sam, until the slightest touch has him mewling like a kitten and a kiss to his chest has him blinking, muzzy and high on endorphins, and _smiling_.

Gabriel snaps the fingers of his clean hand, materializing a warm, wet towel. He meticulously cleans Sam's stomach, his cock, his balls, wringing more sweet moans from somewhere high in his throat, and tosses the cloth to the side before starting to suck his fingers clean. Sam watches him, catching his breath, his wits.

"…I thought you were gonna kiss me," he says after a minute, and Gabriel looks at him, at his flushed face and sleepy, doe-brown eyes. A kiss. A _kiss_. Sam had balked at experiencing the most intense orgasm of his natural life, and instead of expressing regret over _that_, the only thing he wants is a _kiss_.

Humans are bizarre, but, as Gabriel has learned time and time again, they are _never_ boring. He snaps his fingers for a glass of Listerine and an empty cup to spit in, grabs them from the nightstand and rinses his mouth out while Sam furrows his brows like he doesn't understand. Gabriel spits, then raises an eyebrow.

"Just because _I_ can't get e. coli doesn't mean _you_ can't," he explains, and Sam…_blushes_. Like he'd honestly forgotten, for a second, where Gabriel's mouth had been. "I don't care _how_ clean you are. Better safe than sorry."

"I thought angels just…I mean, _Cas_ never showers."

"Please don't refer to my brother with your saccharine-sounding nicknames while you're in bed with me. And, yeah, he doesn't bathe because he chooses not to. Doesn't _need_ to. But if I had leaned in to kiss you, even if I told you that I was clean, what would you have done?"

Sam blinks. "Uh…"

"Exactly. Now shut up and kiss me, before I start getting bored."

Sam laughs (smile crooked, hair mussed and in his eyes, legs flopped apart where he's too sensitive to close them just yet), and that's exactly what he does.

_Oh yes,_ Gabriel thinks, and not without a touch of nervousness. _This is definitely getting out of hand._  



End file.
